see the sand made of mountaintops,
see the forest made of traffic jams and exhaled breath.
see the ocean filled with nothing more than opportunity, taxes and war,
see our whispers kept under wrap by only a thinly-sealed atmosphere.

unfurl your dusty wings.

some might say we’re only here
to tell arousing stories with heroes and villains,
but what happens when the ink runs dry,
and the last of the campfire logs burns dim?

where will we huddle and what will fill our contempt then?

when man has no more space to roam,
and his fields of intellect have all been burned and razed,
where will he conceal his gymnastics of faith then?